


Not Your Damsel

by AraSigyrn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fuck Or Die, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraSigyrn/pseuds/AraSigyrn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty forces Sherlock and genderswapped-John to into an impossible situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Your Damsel

Sherlock Holmes ordinarily prides himself on his abnormality. Most men don't beat corpses with riding crops to prove their deductions on post-mortem bruising despite the fact that it is self-evidently the best method of confirming observational data and he is sufficiently self-aware to know that logic like that is far from his most obvious deviation from social norms.

Joan Watson is his one exception.

Stamford never clarifies why an attractive, competent woman who takes a maximum of fifteen seconds (Sherlock has timed multiple encounters to verify this limit) to win over everyone she meets found herself in a situation requiring that she take rooms with a complete stranger. At first, he supposes Stamford brought her to him as a result of a fundamentally flawed string of logic; Sherlock presents as high-functioning autistic with borderline sociopathic tendencies, mostly notably in the matter of his sexual activity or rather the lack thereof.

He did do his research, to the best of his frankly mediocre ability, and if Sherlock were not so practised in the art of being scrutinised, Stamford might have managed it discreetly. Stamford paid particular attention to any possibility of sexual deviancy. Based on his queries, it was child's play to deduce he suspects sexual assault. Convincing Stamford that Sherlock is functionally asexual was pathetically easy and concealing the evidence to contrary was infantile.

Sherlock has had five sexual partners - defined as persons with whom the encounter resulted in orgasm for either party - and finds sex an inefficient use of his valuable time. He expects Stamford to be bringing a friend to observe the freak, lending credence to the hyperbolic stories Stamford likes to tell about him.

Instead, Stamford brings him Joan.

Doctor Joan Watson (Captain) (ret.); who has seen combat, who hides her limp because someone in the not far distant past taught her to fear showing weakness. She is strong-willed, deeply loyal and entirely _fascinating_. She knows Sherlock for less than twenty four hours before she kills a man to save his life.

Sherlock knows of no-one else in the world who would value his life above that of a (seemingly) harmless old man.

He crosses the police tape to reach her, observing her keenly and he cannot be certain how she will react. That she would laugh and accept his invitation is not a high probability outcome but she does. Sherlock is uncharacteristically petulant when Mycroft arrives and Joan confirms the identity of his supposed arch-nemesis.

He puts a hand on the small of her back in a subtle attempt to guide her away but Mycroft's knowing smirk drives him away without her. Joan has more to say and she dallies long enough to clarify her own understandings. Mycroft seems almost taken aback by her blunt questions. Sherlcok loves

Sherlock calls to her and Joan abandons his older brother to come after him. She follows him to dinner and into his erratic unconventional lifestyle. Sherlock adds new information daily; Joan is an early riser by habit, not nature and it is best to suggest any questionable activities before she has her first cup of tea. She will then only complain if his plans are truly objectionable. She is an expert marksman, a satisfactory cook and while she is far from his intellectual match, her insight helps ground him, offering a basis for his own deductions.

All in all, Joan is a most exemplary companion and one Sherlock is willing to invest considerable resources in protecting and cultivating.

For the first few months, Stamford finds reasons to visit Sherlock whenever he visits Bart's and his questions are boringly predictable. He asks questions that dance around the subject for a random period of time varying between five minutes and twenty. Sherlock indulges him when there is nothing more pressing to distract him (1.5% of encounters) or asks him pointed questions until he desists. Still Stamford returns every time until Sherlock is moved to wonder about his motivation.

"Did you have a romantic relationship with Mike?" Sherlock asks one evening.

Joan puts down the stack of newspapers she was sorting through with elaborate care. "Mike?"

"Stamford," Sherlock clarifies. "How many 'Mikes' do you know?"

"A few," Joan says evenly. "Not all of us are limited to skulls and arch-nemesisi for our social interactions, you know?"

"Irrelevant. You're evading the question which suggest you do not want to admit the truth." Sherlock steeples his fingers, leaning back. "Suggesting an emotional attachment which you don't want to admit which supports the idea."

"No." Joan says flatly.

"No?

"But you have had relationships with men?" Sherlock presses, need for data outweighing the clear warning signs.

"Is this your way of asking if I'm gay?" Joan rises to her feet, tugging at the sleeves of her jumper down. It's a tell; her discomfort is shading rapidly into anger.

"Are you?" Sherlock's observations suggest Joan is mostly probably heterosexual but her sensibilities certainly don't preclude same-sex encounters.

"None of your fucking business," Joan says in a measured, even tone that closes the subject immediately and she slams the door as she leaves. She didn't, Sherlock notes, say no. Ordinarily he would dismiss her non-answer as irrelevant denial but Joan confounds his skills no matter how he tries to elicit a response.

The memory of that conversation replays itself in exact detail as Sherlock looks from Joan's stubbornly down-turned face to Moriarty's gloating smile. He tosses the gun – Joan's gun – aside and Moriarty claps his hands in mocking approval.

Sherlock catalogues the gesture, notes the elevated pulse and dilated pupils but his mind refuses to perform the obvious extrapolation. Instead he tastes the cholrine in the air, notes the smell of ill-serviced heating and counts the red dots of the snipers' range-finders (15 total and Sherlock thinks dimly that he should be impressed or perhaps flattered?).

"So, given how _close_ you two little lovebirds are," Moriarty trills, "I have to say, I was so hurt that you didn't call me, Sherlock."

Sherlock wants to hit him, a sudden visceral urge direct from his primitive brain. He has never hated anyone like this before; Sherlock is not a passionate being, his hatred is clinical, detached and even Mycroft at his worst has never aroused anything stronger than contempt. Until now, Sherlock had honestly believed he was incapable of that fiery passion. Jim Moriarty will die screaming, Sherlock thinks as the man runs his knuckle down the side of Joan's face. Something hot and furious boils through Sherlock and he is distantly aware that his hands are shaking as she twitches away.

"I mean, _really_ , Sherlock," Jim's lips twist, his foppish veneer flaking off as he catches Joan's chin and pulls her head up. "I _know_ you can do better."

"Leave her alone!"

Moriarty's teeth flash as his smile turns wicked. He crowds into Joan's space, defying her attempts to pull away. Despite the very really danger, Sherlock thinks she would have punched him. Moriarty laughs, catching the chain of the handcuffs and pulling her arms back. Joan's face twists for a second and Sherlock jerks forward.

"Such passion, Sherlock," Jim smirks, pulling Joan back against his body. "Not really sociopath-y of you, is it?"

Sherlock glares at the man, trying not to look at Joan's strained expression. Moriarty cackles and reaches up to catch the sides of Joan's shirt (shirt, because Joan doesn't wear blouses although Sherlock has never reached a satisfactory conclusion for her preference for baggy clothes). In one savage motion, he tears it open. Joan snarls a curse but her struggles only make the matter worse.

Joan has lived at 221B for nearly three months and Sherlock would have needed significant visual impairment to miss the self-evident fact of her physical attractiveness. He tries not to look, refuses to be complicit any further but Moriarty is relentless. He strips Joan of her jeans and her cardigan and the stupid thick woollen socks that her brother has sent bi-weekly since her deployment, one by one. Moriarty is still talking, poisonous words pouring past and Sherlock refuses to listen.

Sherlock stares at the red dots, trying not to notice the way Joan's cheat heaves as her distress grows. He conceives and discards a hundred different plans of escape but his own hubris has given Moriarty more than enough time to close any avenues of escape. The only place he can go is into his own mind and so he retreats into bloodless observation

It proves easier to observe that the bra is several years past fashionable in design and colour than to focus on the close fit of the fabric across her puckered nipple. Moriarty leaves her shirt and the stupid cardigan pooled around her elbows and Sherlock focuses on the scar tissue pitting her shoulder. It takes more effort to keep his eyes from her chest or the dark thatch of hair between her legs but Sherlock refuses to succumb to so transparent a manipulation.

"So, Sherlock," Jim purrs, holding Joan's arms out from her back at an angle that must be painful and obliges her to arch her back in a pose that could be considered 'provocative' in other circumstances. "Since the show doesn't seem to working for you and your little woman doesn't want to talk..."

"I wonder why," Sherlock drawls reflexively.

Moriarty's smile is razor-edged. "I like you, Sherlock, so I'll tell you what. I'll make you a deal."

He twists Joan's arms up and over her head so the handcuffs are tangled in the cardigan and shirt before her. Moriarty smirks. "You screw your little lady here and I'll let you both walk out here alive."

Sherlock's instant response is to refuse; forced sexual relations could destroy the rapport between them and he is absolutely incapable of contemplating a future that does not feature Joan as primary fixture. The impulse is strangled by the impossibly strong desire to keep Joan safe. He cannot plead inability, the arousal response to stimulus is undeniable with his body refusing to bow to his mind's revulsion.

Joan is a very attractive woman, even – perhaps especially – now that Moriarty has shorn her of the baggy clothes she uses to camouflage that fact. Sherlock's response to that is instinctive but he shies away from the deeper implications. He wants to see Joan respond to his touch, wants her to surrender even this intimacy to him and with the alternatives as death or Moriarty raping her...

The latter is as undesirable as the former albeit for vastly different reasons but Sherlock will not allow Moriarty to use him against Joan in this manner. He _cannot_!

"Sherlock," Joan's voice stops the churning thoughts and he looks at her.

Her lips are compressed, her cheeks red with shame and anger but her eyes are...Sherlock looks at Moriarty with a curled lip. "And you expect that we will believe you?"

"Fuck or die, Sherlock," Moriarty dares him, arms held wide.

"Sherlock," Joan's voice is lower, more commanding and Sherlock's spine tingles. He stifles the automatic shiver.

"Your word?" He demands of Moriarty and the mastermind smirks again, pulling Joan's arms up and over his head.

"My word, if it means so much to you," Moriarty promises airily, eyes dark with lust and anticipation.

"Joan..." For the first time, Sherlock laments his disinterest in 'normal' behaviour; not that he believes there is a socially acceptable manner in which to apologise to a friend before you rape them at the instigation of a criminal mastermind.

Her eyes flick up for a second then she goes back to staring fixedly down and to the right. Sherlock is obliged to reach between them to undo the buttons of his trousers. This close, Joan can't hide the acceleration of her respiration, her pulse racing where her wrist presses against his neck and Sherlock ducks his head to meet her eyes. Joan swallows visibly when the backs of his fingers brush between her legs. There is some moisture, Sherlock notes with relief as he concentrates on purely physical requirements.

He is aware that he is above the national average in dimensions and previous experience suggests a greater potential of harming his partner unless due care is taken. The thought makes his fingers go still, paralysing him with two buttons remaining fastened.

"Come on, Sherlock," Moriarty's voice is impatient. "We're all friends here."

_No,_ Sherlock thinks savagely. _We are not._

Joan looks up at him, eyes still carefully blank and licks her lips. It's a nervous affectation, Sherlock has seen her lick her lips a dozen times in the last twenty four hours. His body responds as if it were a deliberate attempt at seduction and Sherlock winces away from her.

"Give him a kiss," Moriarty breathes, pressed up against Joan's back and Sherlock pretends that the shudder of revulsion that passes through her is solely directed at the madman.

Joan is forced to rise on her toes, arms pulling Sherlock's head down to help her balance and the kiss is ill-practised and borders on inept. It certainly bears no resemblance to the kisses favoured by Sherlock's previous partners but she keeps their lips together, pressing up as Moriarty hisses his approval into the intimate sliver of space between their faces.

Sherlock has never believed that kisses were any more indicative of intent than any other aspect of body language but he closes his eyes and indulges in a whimsy that Joan is giving her consent. He pretends for a moment that Joan is trying to tell him that this is simply something to endure until they are free and can seek appropriate revenge.

Joan is looking into his eyes when he breaks the kiss and Sherlock can hardly bear to look at her as he finishes opening his flies. There is no room to disrobe further and Sherlock is selfishly glad of the illusion of control remaining clothed affords him. He looks into Joan's eyes and sees the flinch when his penis comes into contact with her. She blinks for a second longer than necessary then meets his eyes with the same indefatigable strength that drew him from the first.

Sherlock keeps eye contact even as he penetrates her; Joan is tight and drier than he would wish her to be and the wrinkles that form around the corners of her eyes suggest that it is painful. She does not look away from him, does not speak except for the voiceless 'oohhh' as Sherlock sinks inexorably deeper.

He is obliged to keep his hips in motion, pushing deeper in increments and taking an increasing percentage of Joan's weight. Moriarty is still pressed against her back, panting into her shoulder with lewd, revoltingly nasal gasps. He sounds like cheap pornography and Sherlock dismisses him entirely from his attention.

Instead he focuses every iota of his attention on Joan, watching fresh colour rising in her cheeks. She raises her chin and cants her hips into him, encouraging and deepening their connection until Sherlock is fully sheathed in her body. Joan is breathing rapidly, pupils expanding and shivers run up and down her body. Sherlock puts his arms around her waist, drawing her closer and creating a deliberate distance from Moriarty.

The man's voice is breathless and shrill when he speaks, slapping Joan's rump like she is a horse. "Well, don't just stand there, slut, fuck him back or else..."

Joan's eyes harden and she breathes in slowly, working her hips closer to Sherlock in deliberate thrusts. Sherlock has to bite his lip to restrain himself and Moriarty's snigger makes his hands curl, fingernails digging into Joan's back.

_I will see you **burn**._ Sherlock mentally promises the giggling madman as Joan rocks against him, the wet sounds of their coupling seeming indecently loud in the silent pool. Sherlock matches her rhythm, almost tempted to a smile when relief fills Joan's eyes. There is nothing humorous in this encounter and Sherlock can draw scant comfort from the fact that they are falling into the habit of wordless communication.

All it proves is Sherlock is preferable to Moriarty and that is surely self-evident to any rational person. Joan Watson is nothing if not a rational being

Joan shifts against him and the angle changes and Sherlock's own breath catches as she moves again. The tempo is quickening and Sherlock cannot keep pace, his vaunted control fraying far faster than he would have believed possible.

"Joan..." he warns, breathless and choked.

Joan looks up at him, reading him with that disconcerting ease that she develops whenever Sherlock becomes uncertain and stands up on her toes to kiss him solidly. She swallows the (doubtlessly embarrassing) sound that he lets out when his climax over takes him. Joan's body quivers against him but Sherlock's knees are buckling.

He has been abstinent for so long that the physiological after effects take him by surprise. He can't control the collapse, unable to sustain their shared weight. Joan falls into him, legs coming to rest on either side of Sherlock's hips, his suit jacket flaring out in a pretence of modesty to cover her thighs.

There is sticky wetness between them, the disgusting sensation of wearing soiled clothes already creeping in but Joan is pressed against him, affirming her continued existence with every ragged breath and racing beat of her heart. He hears Moriarty's wordless moan and the man's exaggerated gasping for breath but he pays them no mind.

Joan – wonderful Joan, marvellous Joan – is tapping against his spine. Even halfwitted with the aftermath of orgasm, Sherlock recognises Morse code. 'THE GAME IS ON-' pause-'SECOND HALF STARTS NOW '.

It changes nothing, changes everything in one simple communication and Sherlock laughs, a silent ripple of almost sound that is lost in Moriarty's hammed-up performance. He turns his head, just enough to brush his lips against the curve of her ear.

"Joan Watson, you are _remarkable_...."


End file.
